I want to tell you what I'm like, really,
Through my poetry.
How cooking dinner makes me rhyme
And drinking wine makes me sad
How my reflection rarely drives me to write
But the feeling of my own soft skin
Makes me realize how soothing it is: a pen rolling on paper
How, if I come back to this poem, I'll hate it.
How sometimes I say things cryptically
Because it makes me more interesting to myself

I want to tell you how self-injurous my behavior is--
How inward I am,
And how I talk as not to hear myself.

Here is something about crying:
Silent, deep sorrowful cries are the best
Because you feel them in your heart to start
Because the tears spill over, hot, soothing
When they touch your yearning face.

I don't have time to explain it all, though.